"Come along," he sang out to our hero. "It's a little warm crossing, but it's generally all right. We had three caught by the enemy's bullets yesterday, but that's because they would stop to star gaze. Ah, very neat shooting, eh? I declare, the beggar has cut one of my epaulettes off with his shot!"
It was true enough. Tom had heard a shot fired from the fortress, for the trench they had just left was within long range of an outwork manned by the enemy. He had instantly seen the left epaulette of the ensign rise in the air, spin round merrily, and then fall to the ground. And the young officer only showed annoyance at such an injury being done to his uniform! As for the men stationed in the trench behind, and those in the earthwork for which they were making, they watched the little scene with grins of amusement and delight.
"Dicky Silvester, ensign. That's him," growled one of the sappers hoarsely to his neighbours. "Joined us a year ago, or less, and looks and acts as if he were a born soldier, and didn't care a fig for bullets or anything else. Who are the other orficers? Ain't they cool 'uns too? My hat, Dicky ain't the only one as don't give a hang for bullets!"
The cool behaviour of the three even raised a cheer before they had entered the earthwork, calling a sharp order from the ensign.
"What's this?" he demanded, dropping slowly out of shot of the enemy, a manœuvre which Tom and Jack followed. "Laughing and cheering when there's work to be done! Here——"
Another patch of dirt on his uniform distracted his attention and cut short the speech. As for the men, they dashed their picks again into the ground and went on with their delving. Then whispers passed amongst them.
"Blessed ef I don't think as the toff of an orficer in staff uniform ain't Mr. Tom Clifford, him as held up them Portuguese in a church, commanding the Frenchies who'd taken him as prisoner," said one. "Ain't that the one?"
"And went right into Ciudad Rodrigo t' other day," agreed his comrade, "and come galloping out dressed as a gal. He's the boy. Law! He looks at Badajoz as if he was hungry to get inside, and had more almost to do with this siege than we have."
Tom might indeed have been accused of that, for those wretchedly wet days in March, 1812, found him frequently in the trenches, watching as parallels were dug, eagerly measuring the advance of the busy army of sappers digging their way closer to the fortress. Or he would lie behind one of the batteries by day and by night, and would listen to the thunder of the guns, and would watch for the tell-tale spout of dust which shot into the air as the huge iron ball struck the bastion. Then would come the clatter of falling masonry, followed perhaps by a cheer from the gunners. More often the shot would be answered by a terrific hail of grape, which pattered overhead, swept the entire face of the batteries—and but for the fascines erected to give cover every one of the gunners would have been killed—then whizzed across the open, splashing into the many pools of water which had been left by the heavy and almost continuous rain. It seemed, indeed, slow work this siege operation; slow and perhaps not too sure.
"For even when the breaches are practicable there are the defenders to be dealt with," thought Tom. "There will be mines to blow us up, obstructions of every sort, and grape and shot showered down upon us. But take the place we will; I mean to be one of the very first inside the fortress."